While You Were Deducing
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Lonely and a bit lost after returning to London from Afghanistan John thinks he has fallen in love with a handsome man. But that's before he meets the younger brother. A 'While You Were Sleeping/Sherlock' fusion. Thanks to the wonderful Joanacchi for the lovely cover for this:)
1. Ever Lasting Love

1\. Ever Lasting Love

 _performed by Natalie Cole_

 _My life, up until the day I met him, had been pretty normal. Ordinary. Type of life where nothing exciting ever happens. I mean, yes, I'd been to war and had been shot. Invalided home. But that was the most exciting thing that had ever happened, and I wouldn't recommend it. Before that, pretty straightforward track, decent student, good at rugby, went to medical school, joined the army, but nothing out of the ordinary._

 _I first saw him about three months before the events that changed my life take place. He was coming out of a Criterion's. Looked a little odd, it did, posh bloke like that, expensive coat, leather gloves, brolly, kind that probably had his name engraved on it somewhere. He was holding a coffee in one hand, juggling his brolly with the other whilst he tried to bite into a rather large pastry, leaving little flecks of icing sugar on his lips and chin. Even though it wasn't something I often thought of about blokes, preferring women most of the time, I mean I'd had my fair share of both, but with men it was usually straightforward, a 'want to shag? All right' and then it's all done and dusted, but this man, you could tell he was a keeper, the marrying kind. Or so I thought at the time. I wanted to walk up to him, place my hand on his shoulder, go up on my toes (he's a lot taller than me) and lick that sugar right off of his mouth. He'd look at me with those piercing blue eyes, smooth back his dark auburn hair and he'd ask me in a low voice, "Would you fancy coming around to my posh house and spending the night?" and of course I'd say yes and we'd scurry off and he'd let me get my leg over, if you take my meaning._

 _So I sat and watched him, wistful like, Natalie Cole singing Ever Lasting Love in my head (which is weird as I am more of an Aretha Franklin, not that Natalie's shabby) and watched him struggle a bit and I was actually in the processing of working my way off of the bench and hobbling over (my leg see, psychosomatic limp on top of the dodgy shoulder, but that's another story) when an enormous black car pulled up, and an absolutely gorgeous woman got out and held the door for him. I could tell she was his PA or something and not his date because seriously she never once took her eyes from her Blackberry, pecking away at it and looked at him. Who wouldn't want to bask in the glow of that? So he gets in and is whisked away somewhere important, probably banking or stock exchange, maybe a lawyer and I am left sitting there, bum getting cold._

 _I mean, it was ridiculous, right? He'd never even looked away from his pastry let alone across the street to where I sat, but I felt a connection like it meant something. Enough for a loser that showed up every day for a week to see if he returned and he did but only on Tuesday and Thursday. I kind of stalked him a bit after and sure enough twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday he comes out of Criterion, coffee in one hand, sometimes brolly, always a pastry and get into a car._

 _And I would sit there and imagine a better life._

 _But like I said._

 _Nothing ever happens to me._

The day of Christmas Eve was bit warmer than usual, and John was grateful. He still needed time to acclimate to the damp cold of London. Being a Thursday, a large portion was spent sitting on his usual bench. The sun on his face, a cooling cup of coffee in one hand, paperback in the other, he waited. A pathetic sort of hope ran through his veins. He longed for one brief glimpse. Bleakness had been a companion for so long that this small thing, this tiny taste of something that might happen, sort of helped him through the rest of the week. Even though nothing would come of it, even though he'd get his heart kicked again, he had nowhere else to be.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. The man was late. He was never late. Perhaps, being as it was Christmas, he had gone away, out of town or perhaps something had come up. Maybe he'd even changed coffee shops. John gave himself a little shake, said to himself, "Right, time to give it up, mate, it would never have worked out." Take it as a sign to move on. He shifted a bit as if to stand up when he saw him coming out of the Criterion usual coffee and pastry in hand. He was just about to take a bite and then it happened.

There was a noise John hadn't for several months, one he certainly didn't associate with London, but with Afghanistan. There was a scream and shattering glass, and the man had crumpled to the pavement.

With reflexes he was sure had been lost in the desert with the bullet that had taken him down, John raced through oncoming traffic to reach the side of the man, and he did it in spite of a pounding heart and the wish to quiet the sudden influx of Afghani related noises creeping through his head. He checked the man carefully, efficiently, airway, breath, circulation. His own respiration picked up a bit when he saw the small round red stain on the man's chest which was slowly getting bigger, just above his heart and oddly near the same location as John's own scar. John wasn't even aware of yelling instruction at the shell-shocked pedestrians to dial 999 and was applying what manner of first aid he could.

The man groggily opened his eyes. Looked at John, smiled a little oddly. Jon said calmly, "It will be okay I've got you." The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he was out.

He didn't see the long, black car; he didn't see the gorgeous PA or hear her speaking rather calmly into her Blackberry. He did see the ambulance and gave instruction to the paramedics. A large grey haired man, tall and rather gorgeous came up to him as John's patient/love of his life was being placed in the ambulance. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and asked John a few questions about what he'd seen and what had happened.

John responded wearily, the adrenalin crash rushing through him faster than it use to. God, he was out of shape. He felt a bit dizzy and was going to need to sit down. In fact, he was lying on the ground, and he didn't know how he got there.

"It's all right," said the DI, "Most aren't use to that sort of action. Takes one by surprise."

John laughed a bit, a quiet, sad little chuckle. "You wouldn't know it, but I was an army doctor. I am used to this, but it's been a while."

"Come on then mate, why don't I take you to the hospital, they can check you over, and you can find out about how your patient is doing. See if he's okay. I'm sure he'll pull through."

John was so tired, and there was still the sound of buzzing in his head. He was having trouble keeping the flashbacks at bay, doing his deep breathing and he realised he was shaking. He didn't even really hear himself say. "I was going to marry him."


	2. Merry, Merry Christmas Part 1

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the enthusiastic comments regarding this fusion. I hope I can do it justice. I will be taking liberties with lots of things, the movie, the show, procedures at hospitals, pretty much everything. I will keep to the heart of both the show and the movie:D**

2\. Merry, Merry Christmas Part 1

 _performed by Koko Taylor_

 _So, yeah, umm, that didn't go as planned, what with the awkward pining turning into awkward life saving. At the end of the day, somehow, everyone thought I was actually engaged to Mycroft Holmes. Yep. That is his real name. Posh name for a posh bloke, I suppose. Funny thing is I had several opportunities to explain but after the family poured in the words absolutely stuck in my throat. How do you explain_ _ _to people_ you are not really engaged when their son is recovering from surgery? I sat in the dark of my bedsit, head in hands, wondering what the fuck I was going to do. All I had wanted was to see if Mycroft was going to be okay. I couldn't get the day out of my head. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion._

A little dazed and a lot confused pretty much summed up the way John felt. He stood ramrod straight, cane in hand, tucked away in a corner by the admitting desk and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Driven to the hospital by the nice Detective Inspector, he didn't remember much of the ride. He hadn't one hundred percent noticed the speculative looks said Inspector shot him now and then. There had been an awareness of shock on Lestrade's face when he had uttered something to himself whilst lying on the ground, but he couldn't recall why.

They arrived at the hospital in time to see the gentleman he'd been sort of almost stalking rushed into the operating bay. A rather snotty young intern denied them access, in spite of Lestrade and his police officer ways, snarking at him that he could wait to question the patient. And that John was certainly not welcome. "Family members only!" John was just as glad. He'd rather slink away into obscurity and not have anyone notice him or congratulate him on his fast acting, so he stood to one side, memories of working in a hospital before shipping off to war brought to the surface. It was, shockingly, gentler set of memories than the ones that had overtaken him whilst working on the man.

Something just on the edge of his hearing caught his attention and brought him out of his thoughts.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's hospital policy. You can go in, in a bit because you're the investigating officer but no one else is allowed except immediate family."

"But he's going to marry him. He's his fiancée."

"His fiancée?"

"Yeah. And he saved his life. You really should let him in to see him."

John glanced over to see Lestrade speaking to a nurse. He wondered who he was was talking about.

Lestrade gestured in his direction. The conversation went on for some time with intermittent words escaping and overheard above the bustle. Words like 'Important government official…police officer…marriage…next of kin…phone calls…superiors…secrecy act.'

And then he remembered what he had said, lying on the cold, wet ground, wishing he were somewhere else.

"Oh God, no." He moved forward just as Lestrade turned with a look of triumph on his face and began walking toward him.

"Good news. I got you in, and we can wait for Mycroft to get out of surgery."

"But…no…wait…you don't…"

Lestrade ignored every attempted utterance from John's mouth. A vastly excited air surrounded him having circumvented hospital policy to smuggle John through. As they made their way to the waiting area near the operating room, John finally pulled his arm out of Lestrade's very firm grasp.

"Stop. Just stop."

Lestrade looked at him, puzzled.

"What is it? I'd thought you'd be in a hurry to get near and here the news."

John pinched his nose. "Look, there's been, there's been a misunderstanding."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not his," he waved his arm in a sweeping gesture, "fiancée. I am not going to marry him. I didn't even know what his name was until just now."

Lestrade's face paled. "Shit. Really? But you said you were going to marry him?"

"Yeah, well, I was talking to myself."

"Next time tell yourself your single and move on." He ran a hand through his hair. "I've got to admit it did surprise me to think of all people he'd be the one getting married. Only thing more shocking would be if you told me you were about to marry his brother." Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels before coming to a decision. "Look, seeing as how you saved the guy, I guess it really wouldn't hurt to go and check on him. I can get your statement. Come on."

John stood there gaping a bit and then followed after Lestrade. After giving his statement, he could just check, leave and go back to his bedsit.

A hospital vending machine, the kind that produced truly abysmal coffee, took up most of the space in the waiting room beside the extremely uncomfortable chairs. Fishing some change out of his pocket, John purchased two cups for them. It was the least he could do for Lestrade and what he'd put him through.

Handing the Inspector his, John cleared his throat and said, "So, um, how do you know…Mycroft was it?"

"I don't know him so much as I know his brother. Royal pains in the arse they are, although they come by it honestly. Whole family is mad. It was his lordship in there who set me up with his brother in the first place."

"Set you up?"

"Oh, no, not like that. About ten years ago when I was still a sergeant, I was working an investigation of a series of grisly murders. Sherlock, the younger brother, shows up, higher than a kite and solves it for me with one glance. We all thought, at first, he must be involved to know so much, but Mycroft rides in to save the day to show us proof Sherlock was no were near London for some of the murders and then offers me money to spy on his baby brother. 'Course I'm all offended and turn him down, but I tell him if he can get the kid clean and stay that way I might be able to use him. Keep him out of mischief."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Look, I'm not sure why I'm telling you this John, but you've got that kind of face, and I think I sort of trust you, seeing as how you got me into this and all. So how do you know Mycroft? Or were you just in the right place at the right time?"

The warmth of a blush started at the roots of his hair. "Oh, well, I, uh…" Fortunately, an unusual noise interrupted him and saved him from having to embarrass himself further as he tried to talk his way out of what sounded more like a teenage angst fest.

It was a little like the clash of the sea rushing in at high tide combined with the angry chatter of drunken squirrels. A small crowd swarmed down the hall as if they were one unit. Literally swarmed. A mix of ages, genders, and occupations, all talked at the same time and loudly. If he squinted just right he could almost see the words circling their heads. The conversations overlapped and no one appeared to be listening to anyone but themselves, but they all answered as if they understood each other so they must.

A rather attractive stylish woman with silver hair and bright eyes lead the group, immediately followed by a tall man, wearing a cardigan and bow tie, his overcoat thrown over his arm. He just nodded to himself as if he had heard her but seemed to be listening to music in his head. He parroted everything the woman said, not as though he were incapable of his own thinking but as if everything she said was far more important than what he could come up with on his own. The young woman, the PA, who had always accompanied Mycroft followed them, still typing away on her Blackberry. Beside her was another older woman, this one about the same age as the first but slightly thinner. She chatted away to the P.A, who mostly ignored what was being said. Trailing the group was a man in his mid to late twenties, rather scruffy looking, his large eyes blinking as he took in everything. There was an air about him as if he spent time calculating how much stuff he could nick in the hospital. John assigned them relationships.

"Somebody's put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." Must be the mother.

"There, there, my dear, no need to turn monstrous." Father.

"I always said Mycroft Holmes would end up in a hospital all the carryings on he does. What was he thinking giving his mother a fright like that?" Perhaps aunt?

"How much do you think this is worth?" asked Scruffy.

"Touch anything and I will have you tossed out of here," said the P.A.

"Sherlock sent me to see what's happening," said Scruffy.

"I don't care."

The sound increased confined in the small space of the waiting room. A rather tired looking doctor popped out and stood somewhat in shock as he stared at the group of people waiting for him. "I'm sorry but who are all you people? You can't all be in here at once. There's too many, and you are far too loud."

"Doctor, how is my boy? I must know at once."

"She really needs to know doctor, how our boy is."

"Now dear, you mustn't worry. I'm sure Mycroft will be just fine. He'll be right as rain in a few days."

"Anyone got change for the machine? I hasn't had coffee in days, and it's cold out."

"It is imperative I am informed about Mr. Holmes condition. I will leave with you a number you may use at any time to keep me up to date regarding his progress. I will also require any evidence including the bullet and Mr. Holmes clothing to deliver to his people for the investigation."

Lestrade piped up, "Now see here, this is my investigation." He fell to arguing with the P.A.

John thought perhaps now might be a good time to leave before anyone noticed him.

"Okay, look," said the doctor when he finally got a chance to speak. "Your son is out of surgery, he is stable, and his vital signs are strong. The bullet missed anything important, and we will be transporting him to observation. He will be there for a bit and then off to intensive care for a day or two. Two of you, two, may go and sit with him for now. The rest will have to wait."

At that moment the nurse, Lestrade had spoken to earlier hurried up, full of apology for letting all of the family members through. Whilst the doctor conferred with her the rest of the group continued as if nothing had interrupted them. To make matters even more crowded, the young intern who had turned John away earlier came up and started in as well.

"What's he doing here? I specifically said family members only."

The nurse responded with "He's the fiancée."

Lestrade whispered to John, "I think there's more than family members here already." John just shook his head not wanting to be involved.

"All right very well. The mother and the fiancée may go in but no more. The rest of you wait here and keep the noise level down, or I will have you thrown out."

Everyone else caught up to the conversation.

"Mikey has a fiancée?"

"Did they say Mike has a fiancée?"

"Mycroft's getting married?"

As one, they turned to the young woman.

"Anthea, why did you not tell us? The very idea of his mother not being told."

"I am surprised he wouldn't say anything, but he was rather fond of springing news on us. He should have spoken to his mother."

"Just like Mycroft to not talk to anyone about what is going on in that funny old head of his."

"Mr. Holmes private life is his business. He did not see fit to inform me. I am sure he has his reasons."

"Is there a cafeteria here? I could use a sandwich."

Lestrade looked at John and opened his mouth to speak, and John looked anywhere but at he family.

"Er, umm," Lestrade tried to figure out a way to get them out of this mess. "That's to say…"

"I think I am perhaps a bit dizzy. " Father Holmes said rather quietly, and he slumped down in a chair. John moved to go over and see if he was okay, but the other doctor beat him to it.

"Are you alright sir?" He took hold of the thin wrist to check his pulse.

"Oh, it must be his heart. All the excitement is too much for him," said the perhaps aunt.

"He has a heart condition?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, he's had three attacks already. Have you got your pills with you?"

"They weren't heart attacks. They were episodes."

Father Holmes was in good hands and being taken care of, and everyone's attention diverted John thought now would be a good time to leave.

oOo

Later that night John sat in his dark bedsit. He held his head in his hands and wondered how he had even got into his mess. He lay down upon the lumpy bed and stared at the ceiling. After an hour or so he gave it up for a lost cause and dressed.

The underground delivered him back at the hospital and he snuck into the room where Mycroft lay sleeping.

He sat beside him. No one was about. He was rather surprised there wasn't even any security at watch what with the way the PA had spoken.

"Umm, hello. We haven't exactly met. You may be interested to know, we're engaged to be married. Sorry about that. It's a complete mess. I am not exactly sure how it all happened. I'll try and explain to everybody in the morning. I guess I should introduce myself. I am John Hamish Waston. I hate my middle name, so please don't put it on the wedding invitations. Ha ha. I saw you three months ago. I thought you were quite handsome. Er, you still are. You were shot and I helped save you. Took care of you until the ambulance arrived."

John wasn't sure why he was confiding to the unconscious man Perhaps he had been so lonely for so long he just needed to unburden to someone. He continued far into the early hours of the morning, not aware for one minute that Mycroft Holmes was indeed watched, most carefully. His lovely PA was keeping a very close eye on him from another room. She had set up a surveillance camera to unobtrusively monitor her boss.

She listened intently to John's speech, frowning.

Later John, exhausted from the day's events, had fallen asleep with his head on the bed beside Mycroft. She sat back. A thoughtful look settled on her face.


	3. Merry, Merry Christmas Part 2

Merry, Merry Christmas Part 2

 _performed by Koko Taylor_

"Oh look at him! Bless! He's fallen asleep on Mikey's bed."

"Can't be too comfortable, head like that. Bad for his wonky shoulder."

"How do you know he has a wonky shoulder?"

"Look, see? He's all scrunched up, holds his arm stiff and he has a crease across his forehead like he's in pain. Oh, no, wait. That's because he's waking up. My mistake."

"How do you know that?"

"I deduced it."

"Poppycock."

"I did. Sherlock's been teaching me. He says I'm his protégé."

John was slowly coming out of layers of the mostly pleasant dream he'd been having, slowly, slowly like swimming through cotton wool. As he surfaced, it dawned on him that people who had been watching him sleep were discussing him. Oh, shit. How on earth was he supposed to face a group of unknown people with dried saliva around his mouth and sheet creases on the side of his face, not to mention that he was lying to them?

He blinked himself awake and raised his head, looking blearily at the gathering of Mycroft's family, all staring eagerly at him, as eagerly as a zoologist discovering a rare species of mammal. Sitting up, he stretched, rubbed his stiff shoulder and smiled. Might as well be friendly before they discovered who he really…wasn't.

"Umm, hi, uh, sorry. I came by last night, because, well, because…"

"Because you couldn't bear to be parted from your true love. Oh, my dear boy! I am so sorry we did not take the time to welcome you to the family yesterday. We were all in a dither what with Mikey getting shot and finding out he was engaged and then Father's episode. I hope you can forgive us?" Mrs. Holmes came around to John's side of the bed and held out her arms. John blushed. He really needed to explain, he needed to tell them but he couldn't because Mrs. Holmes didn't wait for him to reveal his dishonesty; she scooped John into a hug. The tightest hug he'd ever had. Not one for embraces most of the time, he found himself hugging back before he could do anything else. Mrs. Holmes's hug wouldn't take no for an answer. He had to admit that he felt extremely at home, wrapped in this woman's arms. Lord knew his own mother hadn't hugged him much. Perhaps he didn't even know he'd been craving such a welcome into a family.

Before he could break it off, the P.A. woman came in. She gave the group a quick once over. Her eyebrows went up at the hug and she cleared her throat.

Mrs. Holmes turned as she somehow still managed to keep hold of John and addressed her. "Oh Anthea, isn't it, this month? Hello dear. Come in come in. We haven't had a chance to speak to the doctor."

"Good Morning, Mrs. Holmes. I took it upon myself to talk to her this morning as I have the authority. Mr. Holmes thought it might be a good idea just in case. She is pleased with his recovery and said they are not surprised to see him still unconscious. He received a bump to the head when he went to the ground. He may not awake for another day or so, but we are not to worry if it's longer. He will wake when he is ready. You should also know they have scheduled some more tests for today. She will be in shortly to speak with you."

"Thank you, dear." She gave John a final squeeze. He took it as his cue to confess.

"Um, well, so I have something I'd like to say…"

"Mother, don't forget what we talked about," Mr. Holmes spoke up.

"Thank you, my dear, I did almost forget. If my head weren't attached. John dear, we didn't have a chance to celebrate Christmas with Mikey being in the hospital and we thought we would try later today. We would so love it if you joined us. It would be like Mikey was there. Even if he hardly ever comes home for Christmas these days." Tears sprang up in Mrs. Holmes's eyes.

John blew out a breath and tried to speak again. "Yes, well, there is something you should know…"

"Whoo hoo. I've brought tea up from the cafeteria. Thought everybody could use a cuppa." The lady John had though might be Mycroft's aunt came into the room. She had somehow managed to commander a hospital trolley. On it was a proper tea service, including two kinds of biscuits. She smiled at John. "Veronica dear, have you introduced everyone to John? I'm sure he hasn't had a chance to get everyone straightened out in his head. Knowing Mycroft, he barely gave any of us a mention."

"No Martha, John just woke up. John dear let me introduce you to Martha Hudson. She is Mycroft's godmother. I don't know what we would do without her. And this is a friend of Sherlock, I'm sure Mycroft has mentioned Sherlock, Wiggins…"

"Well, not rea.."

"It was Mikey's idea to take him under Sherlock's wing and help him out. We've come to think of him as family. And of course, Anthea. Well, it's Anthea this month. She changes all the time, but I'm sure you know her."

"I, uh…"

"But of course, Doctor Watson knows me." Anthea gazed at John, a level gaze, one that seemed to be trying to convey something to John. She would definitely know he wasn't what he said he was. He opened his mouth and she shook her head fractionally at him.

"Doctor? You're a doctor? Oh! My boy is going to marry a doctor." Mrs. Holmes clutched John to her ample bosom once again.

"Yes, but you see there's something you should know…"

Anthea sidestepped his attempt neatly. "That Doctor Watson was in the army. He's a Captain and an army surgeon as well as a decorated hero. He was wounded in action in Afghanistan rescuing soldiers."

"How…?" But Anthea's eyebrows were dancing up and down, almost as if they were conveying a message, perfect wings of Morse code. John just shut up. He had to find a way to speak to her before this got even more out of hand.

"A war hero!" and he was enveloped in another hug.

The doctor picked the perfect time to enter. She took one look at the number of people in an Intensive Care room and a very firm look descended upon her face. "You can't all be in here. This man is convalescing. And you're disrupting the other patients in the nearby rooms. I will have to ask some of you to leave."

Finding his voice once more, John spoke up. "I really should be going. I, umm, need to be places."

"I'll leave with you, Doctor Watson," piped up Anthea.

Everyone said goodbye and Anthea followed John out into the hall and then tugged him into an empty room.

"What the hell was that about? Why are you doing this? I have been trying to tell them I am not involved with your boss and that this was a big misunderstanding."

Anthea laid a hand upon his mouth. "Shh. I know. Obviously. I know everything, Doctor Watson. You are not to worry. I think for now it is important to get Mr. Holmes's family through this in one piece, don't you?"

"But…?"

"I know! I know all about you and you, are not the type of person to deceive others. However, I think for now it is important that we let them get through the next few days with this fantasy being the only thing giving them hope. You heard Mrs. Holmes. For them, you are a connection to their son."

"A son I don't even know!"

"Yes but I can help you with that."

"Why? Why would you do this?"

"Let's just say that I have my reasons, one of which is to keep my employer's family calm and happy."

"Really?"

She gave him another of those looks.

"Fine, but I don't like this. I think I should tell them."

"You will. Just not yet. Besides Sherlock will probably do it for you."

"Mycroft's brother, right?"

"Yes. Almost as good as Mr. Holmes at knowing when people are lying."

"Oh great. Lovely that. So when he shows up, the family will know, and this little scenario you want to give them will blow up."

"Not if I help you. It will buy us some time to help them settle."

"This is not my life."

"But you'd like it to be, wouldn't you?"

"Umm…"

"No, it's okay. Don't worry. Doctor Watson. We'll sort this out."

"I…I don't know."

"Did you have any other plans this holiday?" She asked him, but in a way that suggested she already knew his answer.

"Well, no…"

"Then it's all sorted. Think of it as a mini holiday break. Pretend you are at a country retreat and Mr. Holmes's family just happen to be staying at the same location with the added bonus of being under the mistaken belief that you are part of the family."

"Fine. But we will tell them?"

"Yes, of course. Now I will send the car around at half five. Don't worry about what you're to wear. Just be yourself I am sure they will not care in the slightest."

"Half five. Okay. I can do this."

Without further delay, John left the hospital. He stopped at a nearby coffee shop and bought a bun and a coffee to go. He was still in a bit of a dazed state and not sure how his life had turned upside down so radically.

Finding himself on the way back to his dreary little bedsit, he stopped at a florist's and purchased a poinsettia and then made another stop for a rather good bottle of wine. How he managed to juggle both and his cane as he made his way back to the bedsit, he didn't know, but he wanted to make a good impression even though he was lying through his teeth about the whole ridiculous situation. If nothing else, he felt he owed the Holmes's and their relations a small token of thanks for taking him in. He hadn't had a family Christmas dinner since before he'd left for Afghanistan and that had ended with Harry getting drunk and yelling at their parents.

He entered the bedsit and put his purchases on the small table slash desk. He had just spent a good portion of his monthly income, but an unfamiliar happy feeling entered his chest at the thought of Mrs. Holmes lighting up when he handed her the plant. Then he sighed and rubbed his face. It was going to be a complete disaster.

Several hours later, after having a shower, a shave and mostly getting dressed, he was putting on a clean jumper (his favourite oatmeal one) when a knock landed on his door. He opened it to find Anthea standing there, a smile on her face.

"You look very nice, Doctor Watson. Are you ready?"

"Yeah, let me grab my coat." He put it on and took up his cane. She picked up the plant and left him to deal with the bottle of wine.

Leading him down the hall and outside, she stopped beside a rather expensive looking black car. The driver (of course there was a driver) stood at attention beside the open door. The driver (whose name was Charles, but that doesn't matter) took the wine and the plant, placed them in the car before he hurried to help them. It wasn't long before they pulled up in front of a lovely cottage. The warm glow of lights shone from the inside and made the snow on the bushes glitter. Snow was gently falling, and the whole scene was very picturesque. The front door opened and Mrs. Holmes came outside her arms raised above her head as she shouted out a greeting.

"Hello! I am so glad you came. John dear, do come in. Anthea are staying as well? No?"

"No thank you, Mrs. Holmes. I'm on my way back to the hospital to check on your son. I will stop by later with a progress report." She smiled at John and turned to leave.

"No! Wait!" He hurried after her. "I thought you were going to help me out here?"

"You'll be okay. Inspector Lestrade is here and I'm sure he will be of great assistance."

"He's here too?"

"He is, and I am well aware that he knows of your situation the situation."

"But what about Sherlock? Surely he'll know. You haven't told me a thing about Mycroft."

She frowned a little at the mention of the younger Holmes brother. "I have it on good authority that he will not likely be here tonight. You needn't worry. Trust me Doctor Watson. All will be well."

Before he could say anything else she left. John went back up to the house where he greeted a most enthusiastic Mrs. Holmes. She had been watching the conversation keenly but had not been able to hear a word.

"Now don't fret. Mycroft is in good hands. Even I have decided to put away my worry for tonight and enjoy this little celebration. Come in and let's get to know you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes."

"None of this 'Mrs. Holmes' nonsense. You must call me Veronica. Or if you are very daring, Mummy."

"Er, well, thank you … Veronica."

She took his coat and showed him into the living room. Sitting in front of a fireplace, all plunked down in lots of comfortable looking overstuffed chairs, were familiar faces. Mrs. Hudson, Wiggins and Mr. Holmes ('Please call me William') and DI Lestrade.

After a flurry of hellos and a few 'make yourself comfortables', Lestrade asked him, quietly, "How're you doing? Holding up okay?"

"Yeah, I guess. This is rather odd, don't you think?"

"Nah. You're doing them a kindness. Look at how chuffed they all are to see you."

He'd obviously been talking to Anthea.

"Here you go, John," Mrs. Hudson handed him a cup full of punch.

Lestrade whispered. "Watch out for Martha's punch. It could kill you."

John laughed and then took a sip. The fumes shot up his nose, he accidently inhaled and started to cough. Lestrade pounded his back.

Recovering, John settled into a chair near the fire and watched. It was rather like being in a Christmas movie. The familiarity and love that circled the small group was so heartfelt and friendly. John basked in it more than he did the fire. An alien feeling settled in his chest and threatened to burst out. If he could have seen his own smile, he wouldn't have recognised the man who thirty-six hours before had been completely alone and thoroughly lonely. He sat back and let the conversation flow over him as the family exchanged gifts. He drifted in the bits and pieces of the conversation, floated in the warm embrace of the words that flitted by.

"Oh, darling, that's lovely. I always wanted tickets for Les Mis. Thank you. Perhaps when Mikey's feeling better, we can convince him to take John and we can all go together."

"An art book! It's just what I wanted! You know when I was a girl I saw this very same painting. I went on a tour of all the art museums in Europe. I had it in my head that I might become a famous painter. Mycroft always said I missed my calling."

"But weren't you an exotic dancer?"

"Shhh, dear, it's not common knowledge."

"Wiggins, this is from Veronica and me."

"A magnifying glass! Just like Sherlock's. You shouldn't 'ave."

"Thanks for the bottle of scotch, Martha."

"You're quite welcome, Inspector. I won't say how I happened to come across that. Wouldn't want to spend Christmas at Scotland Yard."

John was quite surprised when Veronica laid a gift in his lap. He stared down at it in disbelief as she whispered to him, "To John. From Father Christmas."

With shaking hands, he tore off the paper and opened the box. Nestled it the folds of tissue was a beautiful cashmere scarf in bright scarlet. Holding the box carefully, he looked up at the beaming faces smiling at him.

It was the best Christmas he'd ever had.

It was later, sleepy from the big dinner, expertly cooked by Veronica, finished off with a big helping of trifle and another glass of Mrs. Hudson's excellent punch, that John's Christmas fairy tale screeched to an abrupt halt with the sound of the door opening.

"Sherlock, is that you?" Veronica jumped up and bustled off to greet her other son.

The dinner settled in John's stomach heavily as he sat up, prepared to meet the one other person besides Mycroft, who would expose him as a fraud.

Greg leaned over and whispered, "Don't worry, I've got this." He stood up so that he was partially blocking John from view. John could just see a tall, dark-haired man enter the room and shrug off the long coat.

"It's so good to have you home. We haven't seen you in so long. Now sit right down and I'll get you a plate."

"No thank you, Mother. I'm not hungry. I've just been to see Mycroft. He looks more pale than usual. Been putting on weight, too. The best thing for him is to have a stay at the hospital."

"Young man, that is not funny."

"I'm sorry, Mother. You know I can't help it."

"Sit down and I'll get you some trifle. Oh and John's here."

"John? Who's John?"

"John! Mycroft's fiancé."

"Don't be ridiculous. Mycroft doesn't have a fiancée."

John hastily stood up. In that brief instant, when the bubble of Christmas miracle burst, he decided that he would just come clean.

Sherlock turned and looked at John. A shiver ran down John's back. He'd never been the focus of such an intense look before. His was immediately aware of pale eyes and dark curls, and John was fiercely reminded of a portrait of Byron he'd once seen. His heart thudded as he wondered how much longer he had until he was thrown out of the house. Lestrade could probably be counted on to give him a ride back to his bedsit.

He opened his mouth to speak and tell everyone the truth when Sherlock did it for him.

"This man couldn't possibly be Mycroft fiancée."


	4. Winter Wonderland

**A/N I can't promise that every chapter will write up this quickly but here you go – two in one weekend:D It's a bit shorter than the last one:)**

 **Thank you mattsloved1 for having the patience to look thorough my work.**

4\. Winter Wonderland

 _performed by Felix Bernard_

 _Have you ever wondered how something so outrageous, so impossible can happen to you? Have you ever stood someplace trying to figure out how this can be your life? It was like they say when you see everything flow in slow motion. But then it was like everything moved too fast, a blur of bright colours and wonder, sounds and hopes beyond my greatest imaginings, a magical calliope, when Sherlock swept into my life._

"This man couldn't possibly be Mycroft's fiancée."

"What are you saying, Sherlock? Don't be ridiculous."

"Me ridiculous, Mother? This man is clearly an Army doctor who's been invalided home from Afghanistan. He lives for danger and is easily bored by a quiet and uneventful life. Although Mycroft has had some interesting things happen to him, like someone shooting him, that's a one off. Normally the most exciting thing that happens to him is if they're late bringing around the tea tray at the Diogenes Cub or perhaps when Korea gets into a bit of a snit. What on earth could interest a man like this in my brother?" He waved his hand back and forth in John's general direction, before turning to him to say, "Oh and your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."

"Sherlock, behave! You're brother getting shot is neither interesting nor exciting! Stop this instant." The blood had rushed from Veronica's face while Sherlock spoke and then flowed back again, making it all blotchy from a combination of fear for Mycroft and anger at Sherlock.

"Sorry Mother, but this man here? Mycroft's fiancé? Not likely. Quick, don't think! What's Mycroft's favourite song as a child?"

"Er…"

"Puff the Magic…" began Greg.

"Dragon. Dragon!" finished John.

"Don't help him, Lestrade!"

"Sorry! Reflex."

"What accessory is Mycroft never without?"

"An umbrella."

"Hmmm, yes, well that was an easy one. If Mycroft could only have one dessert for the rest of his life what would it be?"

"Ummm, tri…fle?"

"Sherlock, come in, sit down and cease bothering John."

Sherlock continued to regard John with deep interest and John tried not to squirm and stared steadily back at him. He sat when Veronica handed him a plate of trifle and began to shovel it into his mouth in a way that suggested he might not have eaten for several weeks. The entire time his eyes did not stray from John's face. It made it rather interesting to watch him place the fork in other locations besides his mouth once or twice. John tried very hard not to think about that mouth as the forkfuls went in. That lush, pink mouth with the full lips, shapely and…

The clatter of the fork hitting the plate pulled John out of his musing about Sherlock's lips.

"I really can't stay long, Mother. I have some interesting leads regarding Mycroft's shooting I need to follow. I came to get Lestrade to see if he could move off of the sofa and help me out." His eyes glimmered with interest and a hint of mischief. "But now that I have met John, I suspect he would do nicely. You are an army doctor, correct?"

"Yes, but…"

"Seen lots of action? Too much perhaps?"

"Enough for a lifetime."

"Ready to see more?'

"God, yes! If…if that's all right with everyone? If I just leave for now?"

"Of course, dear," said Veronica. "It would be good for you to get to know your future brother-in-law. Perhaps you can get him to act a little more civilised."

Lestrade sat forward, "Now see here, Sherlock, if this is a police matter…"

"No time, Lestrade. You had your chance. Come John. There's a crime to solve! Oh, it's Christmas."

"Well, yes, it is."

"No Christmas. Oh, I see you mean Christmas. Yes, it's that, too. Come along, John."

Sherlock swept out of the room, pulling John along in the wake of his hurricane force, sweeping aside all of John's inhibitions, and it brought in feelings of worth and energy he hadn't realised he had been missing.

John was returned to his bedsit hours later by a slightly put out Detective Inspector. Flushed with the success of helping Sherlock solve the mystery of Mycroft's shooter. Lying on his small, uncomfortable bed, he grinned in the dark. What a rush to follow Sherlock through alleys as he chased him across rooftops all in search of a disgruntled former aid turned revenge filled cabbie. John lost Sherlock at one point and came across Sherlock confronting the former aid, Jefferson Hope, pistol pointed at Sherlock's head. A well-timed tackle from John had Hope trussed up like the turkey that had been consumed earlier. Hope lay there on the pavement, squirming. John made a comment about this being the craziest thing he had ever done and Sherlock had responded with, "you invaded Afghanistan!"

The warmth that suffused John's chest, like a winter sun on a cold, drab day, had filled him with such promise. All he could do was beam at Sherlock; he had to share with him the feeling that flowed through his veins. And then they giggled (giggled!) like fools. Lestrade chose that moment to drive up clearly annoyed with the two of them for having pulled him from his comfortable spot on the Holmes's sofa. Perhaps as well, a bit perturbed with John. John could see his point. After all, Greg had been trying to help him pretend he was Mycroft's fiancé and here he was chasing after Mycroft's lunatic younger brother. But what a night it had been! Sherlock had even managed to make his psychosomatic limp disappear for the duration of the evening.

The Holmes family was turning his life merrily upside down. In the last few days, Mycroft's parents and friends gave him much-needed love and affection. Sherlock gave him something even more precious, a new purpose in life.

As he thought this all through, his mind's eye turned toward the image of Sherlock, grinning at him. What if they had been alone a few minutes more? It was easy to imagine what might have happened, the adrenalin rushing through their veins, heat and spice. For a moment, John tried to stop thinking about Sherlock, about the wild curls that covered his head, soft and perfect for sinking his fingers into, his hand would do that, run through the incredible hair, pull Sherlock's head closer to him, tugging on it, guiding him. That implausibly lush mouth would curve up in a knowing smile, plump and full. John closed his eyes tightly, trying desperately to get the thought of that mouth out of his head, but he couldn't. That mouth demanded his attention, that mouth, wicked and smirking. He tried to stop the picture of Sherlock falling to his knees, looking up at John with those changeling eyes, cerulean, jade, stormy. Sherlock would raise an eyebrow and ask John if it was all right if he could do this. John could feel his breathing increasing as he lay there and he lifted a hand to his mouth and bit it, a muffled groan emanated from it. He could almost feel Sherlock's hand brush the front of his trousers lightly, but his own hand was the one to free his trapped member from his pants. He could see Sherlock's face turned up, his eyes fixed on John's face, waiting for any sign that John was hesitating. He would then pull down on the zip and take John's hard penis out of them. Playing a little, sweeping across the head, before engulfing him, licking, swirling, his hand guiding John's penis in and out, tasting the salty pre-cum, sucking on the velvet heat. In his room, with the thought of Sherlock's mouth, he quickened his pace, breath coming in gasps.

"OH SHERLOCK!" John shouted into the dark, empty bedsit. The release, it was as sweet as anything he'd ever had, all the better for it being Sherlock in his head, Sherlock who had moved in there in the few hours he'd known him, built a home for him, planted a garden. There may have been beehives there, as well.

And then, for the first time since he'd left the Holmes's house, he felt oddly guilty for having cheated on Mycroft.

Meanwhile, on the other side of London, the hospital was quiet, or as quiet as it could get. The nurses had been around to check on the slumbering patients and the lights in the hallway were dimmed. Not much was going on in the way of emergencies. Sherlock snuck in unseen and settled in by Mycroft's side. If Mycroft had been awake at that moment, the unaccustomed look of worry and fear upon Sherlock's face would have surprised him. It would have given him pause. He may have taken it as an opportunity to tease his younger brother about it, but not likely. It would have reminded him of other moments in their lives when he had worn a similar look on his face; their positions reversed. It also wasn't likely Sherlock would ever let his brother see this side of him, vulnerable, afraid.

Sherlock sat in the room, as dark as it would get due to the glow from the various machines hooked up to Mycroft. It certainly was not silent, the constant beep and hum making a pattern of sound.

"Typical of you to go out of your way to avoid our parents' Christmas. I had to make an appearance just to show them not all of their sons were in dire straits or neglectful."

Sherlock paused, his fingers played on his lips. "So, well done you. John is not what I would have expected. I mean as a choice for you. You know I have always looked up to you. It is not something I would ever say if you were in a conscious state so enjoy it while you have the chance. I have always admired you, used you as a role model when we were children. Did everything in my power not to be like you when I went to uni. I've come to gain a newfound, if reluctant respect for you since. You are my big brother and I hate to admit his but I would miss you if you were gone. It would break my heart."

He sat there, knees drawn up, hidden under his coat, arms wrapped around them as if to protect himself from these unfamiliar feelings. He spoke the last part, having to get it out while Mycroft was still unconscious, knowing he'd never be able to say it to him otherwise. "I have been, I admit, jealous of certain things that have come far easier to you than me. But this…"

He looked down at the floor and pulled his coat around him more firmly.

"Mycroft, I have never been more jealous of you than I have tonight. Well done. John is everything a man could want. I hope you two will be very happy."

He stood to go, thought a moment and then leaned down to whisper in his brother's ear. "I hope you appreciate what you have with John and endeavour to deserve him."


	5. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

**A/N: Just a reminder that I have switched some scenes around & taken liberties (many, many liberties) with both the movie & the show. That being said there are too many good lines to pass up:D**

 **Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking it over once again:)**

5\. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

 _performed by The Glenn Miller Orchestra_

 _Well this was I fine mess I'd got myself into!_

John woke up to the early light creeping into his room through the rather shabby curtains. He scrubbed at his face and frowned. Two days ago he'd been lonely and alone. Today, December 26th, Boxing Day, he had a fiancé, a new family and a raging crush on the fiancé's brother. If it didn't rain, it poured. He tweaked the curtains apart. Or at least, snowed. Fat flakes drifted down from a gray sky and covered the street below. Standing, he stretched, making his spine pop and rotated his shoulder. A trip to the bathroom involved a quick and chilly scrub, which would suffice for the day. As he dressed, his mind wandered the roads he'd gone down last night, literally and figuratively. Sherlock stayed at the forefront of his mind. The need to tell someone, anyone of his secrets was becoming necessary. To give the Holmes's the truth, ugly and unblemished would ease his conscience and maybe, just maybe get him back on the correct track. Mind made up, he was about to snack on a breakfast of apple and tea when someone knocked on his door.

Throwing it open, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock with hands clasped behind his back.

The sudden rush of blood couldn't make up its mind whether to go north to infuse his face with the beginnings of a furious blush as he remembered what he had been thinking and doing last night in bed or south to infuse his cock with the beginnings of a furious hard on as he remembered what he had been thinking and doing last night in bed.

"Oh, yes, hello. Would you. Care to come in?"

Sherlock entered the room, his presence a warmth that settled in John's chest. Those glorious eyes swept the room, taking note of the threadbare atmosphere and the dull furnishings. He turned back to John, and his head tilted to the side as if puzzled by what stood in front of him.

"Is there a problem?"

"No."

"Good."

"Yes, it is."

"Can I help you with something?"

"Yes, you can."

"Well?"

"Hmmm?"

"You said I could help you?"

"Oh. Yes. My parents want you to come for dinner tonight. If it's convenient. Come anyway if it's not."

Disappointment settled in John's stomach. That's the only reason he'd come over? On an errand for his parents?

"No. I mean, yes. I'll come. I don't have plans."

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, how would you like to see a nice murder?"

"Love to!" The day seemed brighter all of a sudden. John grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock out the door. The apple and tea were left forlorn on the small table sitting next to his intentions of making a clean breast.

After a hailed cab and a good distance, they arrived at the crime scene, being overseen by "Greg! Nice to see you?"

"Hullo, John. Sherlock, the body, is in there. We'll be right in. I need to speak to John for a moment. Oh, and you will need to come down to the station later. To talk about the cabbie."

"Not necessary, as Mycroft's people have it all sorted."

"Yeah, well Mycroft isn't around at the moment, and I have questions. It's my division!"

Sherlock quirked an annoyed eyebrow at them and turned slowly to go into an art gallery where apparently a crime had been committed and not just with the post-modernist existential dreck that decorated the walls inside. He kept glancing over his shoulder at John and Lestrade, but the draw of a dismembered corpse was too enticing.

Lestrade looked around quickly to see if anyone was in earshot and beckoned John closer, leaning into his space.

"How's it going? With Sherlock I mean? Has he figured out you're not engaged to Mycroft?"

"You don't care about what happened last night, do you?"

"Nah, just like to rile himself up. No, seriously, has he figured it out?"

"No, umm, I don't think so."

"Okay, good, 'cause here's a little something you can share, if he gets nosy." Lestrade whispered in John's ear for a good few minutes.

"Oh God! No! How the hell do you know that?" John's bottom gave a faint twinge.

Greg blushed in a way that John recognised, "I've seen him naked."

"Greg, were you two an, um, an item?" It sounded weird saying it out loud. Not weird that Greg and Mycroft would be together but that they were not now, and he seemed all right with pretending he was with Mycroft.

John's head hurt.

"Yeah, we were, but it was a long time ago. Folks liked me well enough as a friend and kind of kept me on as a sort of adopted son, but I wasn't good enough to date their son."

"I can't see that! They're so kind."

"Well, like I said it was long ago, and things have changed. Anthea was supposed to give you some information of a more personal nature in case Sherlock asked questions, needed proof but she's been busy running Britain for Mycroft and handling the issue with Hope."

"I'm sorry. About you two, not about Britain."

A shrug conveyed that he'd rather not talk about it anymore. "It might come in handy."

Nodding, a bit queasy, he decided to let it go. At first, he'd been sure that Lestrade had meant how were things going between Sherlock & John. The need to confess reared its head once more sniffed the air and lay there alert and aware. He had to get rid of one of the secrets he was holding onto, or he'd go mad.

"Look, there's something I should tell you, only I don't quite know how."

Lestrade looked concerned. "If it's about telling the folks about you and Mycroft, I thought we'd…"

"No, no that's not it. Although, yes, I would like to. I spent a lot of time with Sherlock yesterday, running around and leaping buildings, that sort of thing. The thing is…the thing is, I think, I…" he huffed frustrated and flummoxed.

"Out with it, man."

"Oh hell, I don't do this…" and he waved his hand back and forth between them.

"What?

"Feelings!"

Comprehension mixed with amusement, a dash of horror and utter fascination rolled across Lestrade's face like the first signs of a traffic accident. Interesting to watch, shock at the thought people were going to be hurt and not a damned thing you could do about it.

"You've got a thing for Sherlock, don't you?"

"Yeah, well, maybe."

"He says he's a sociopath."

"What? No!"

"Load of bollocks if you ask me. I've seen the man and yeah, he's a right terror to fools who try to cross him, he's abrupt and seems cold, but Nah, if he's a sociopath, I'll eat my tie. I've also seen him with his homeless kids. Treats them royally, cares a whole lot, making sure they're fed and watered, taken in, in the bad weather. But he is an arsehole." He gave John a sympathetic eye. "Look, I get it, him and his swishy coat and dark poetic hair, all flash and bang, but you have to see this thing through with the Holmes family, at least until Mycroft is out of the woods."

"Yeah, I know. It's just that all this lying and hiding things; it's not me."

"You're a good man, John."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"Lestrade!"

"And there's his highness now. Keep your shirt on," he called over his shoulder.

They entered the art gallery to see Sherlock looking at a body that had been artfully hung on that wall, that wall and that wall, each piece framed and with an elegant little plaque underneath. "Why did you call me in for this? It's a four at the most, five for creativity. The man's partner killed him, jealous of his greater talent and hung him on the wall as a lesson. Open and shut. Check the partner for paint under his nails. Good day! Come John!"

With an adorably grumpy look gracing his face, he swept out, leaving John to follow in the trail of his swishy coat.

About half way there, John realised they were on their way to the hospital. At the same time, it dawned on him that Sherlock was more than a little angry only John didn't know why.

The cab stopped, Sherlock got out, paid the cabbie and practically ran for it. John followed after as quickly as he could, and only just caught up to Sherlock as the lift doors were beginning to close. Sherlock stood there, glowering.

"What was that about?" He refused to look at John, instead stared at the buttons as if he could light them with his mind powers.

"What was what about?"

"Back at the gallery. You and Lestrade."

"I don't quite follow."

"Oh, come on, John. He was…and you were…"

"Were what?"

"He was…leaning."

"Leaning? Lestrade? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Lestrade had his hand on your shoulder, like this and he. Was. Leaning." Sherlock rested his free hand on the wall of the lift and was most definitely in John's space, hovered over him, enclosed him in the wings of his coat. It felt safe, weighted and incredibly intimate. John was inundated with the heady smell of Sherlock's aftershave mixed with the sharp sting of cigarettes and the very, very pleasant aroma of his natural scent. He blushed, all pink and tingly, and put a hand on Sherlock's chest as if to push him away. But that didn't seem to happen. His hand rested on Sherlock's chest, a connection and a barrier.

"So what if he was leaning? He wanted to know how I was holding up." The lie didn't sit right, and he could tell that it didn't with Sherlock either.

"Leaning…" Sherlock purred the words as he came in closer, dark, smoky, chocolate and cream, breathed into John's ear. "Leaning involves arms and hands. Leaning is whole bodies moving in together, almost, not quite touching, like promises. Leaning implies wanting and yearning and accepting. Leaning sends mixed signals to those observing. Someone watching the two of you could come to the conclusion that perhaps more was going on than seemed on the surface. Do. You. Fancy Lestrade?"

Sweat broke out on John's forehead. A shiver started at his shoulder blades, down his spine and moved to the front, setting up shop. He gulped. Sherlock had come in so close all he could see were the large green and blue eyes staring at him. The smell of the man was doing things to his personal area that would cause embarrassment if he didn't get away soon.

There was a ding as the elevator reached its destination and the doors swept open.

John grinned foolishly at Sherlock. "Saved by the bell."

"Perhaps," and with a turn and a flounce, he swept out, leaving John behind.

He wiped his brow.

It would surely kill him before it was over.

John walked into Mycroft's room, full to the brim once more with the whole kit and caboodle of a family, just after Sherlock and in time to see him sweep around and point at John.

"This man is a fraud!"

As John's stomach hit his shoes, a collective gasp rose up from the open mouths of the stunned family members.

"How can you say that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just ask his boyfriend."

"Sherlock, that is not funny!"

William Holmes rose up, his height similar to Sherlock's, but slightly reduced by the fear and sorrow of his eldest lying in a coma, "Sherlock, please tell us what you mean. How can we ask Mycroft?"

"No. Not him! His other boyfriend. Detective Inspector Gerald Lestrade. I saw them together, and Lestrade was leaning!"

All eyes swivelled to look at John. He could hear the eyeballs creak.

"No, that's not what happened."

"I saw it!"

"Yes, well, you were a distance away. I was just chatting with Lestrade, and he was seeing how I was holding up and…and I felt a bit dizzy, hadn't had a proper breakfast, so he grabbed my arm and…that is all there was to it."

Sherlock's laser vision bored in on John. "Hmmm." He still wasn't convinced. John felt he had somehow disappointed him greatly by making him think he had a boyfriend other than Mycroft.

"If John loves Mycroft he'll prove it." Mrs. Hudson poured a large cup of tea from her ever-present trolley and handed it to John.

John could not believe he would have to share the piece of news given to him by Lestrade, but he was rather glad he had it up his sleeve, so to speak.

"Uh…Mycroftonlyhasonetesticle!"

"What?!"

"That's not possible."

"I assure you as a doctor it is entirely possible."

"No!"

Through the clamour of voices, John shouted a bit to make himself heard. "About four years ago, he was playing tennis with Gr…someone and they had a pencil in their pocket and Mycroft…"

"Ewwww! That's not on!"

"Oh, good heavens."

"There's only one way to find out!"

"I'm his mother. I'll check."

It became blessedly silent as Veronica walked over to Mycroft's bedside and gently lifted the sheet. She paled and quickly dropped the sheet back in place. "It's true."

Everyone else tutted and got John a chair. Scones appeared to go with the tea, and he munched for a bit, although the good food felt a bit like sawdust in his mouth. He really needed to tell them. He could not go on like this.

Clearing his throat a bit, he started to speak, "I have something I would like to say."

All eyes looked at him, eyes which held various degrees of warmth and kindness, eyes that saw him as a conscious breathing substitute for the person who could not be with them at that moment except as a sleeping body.

And it just died in his mouth. He could not say these things to these people. They were far too kind. He did not think he could bear having them turn frosty and condemning.

"I would just like to say…I would love to come for dinner. "

An odd look crossed Sherlock's face. John would have said he was disappointed if he didn't know better.

"Sherlock, you need to stop trying to prove John isn't Mycroft fiancé. I'm certain it's most hurtful to John." Veronica turned to John and said, "We'll expect you at six for dinner." She gave him one of her amazing hugs and left the room, followed by the rest of the family, except for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at John and John looked steadily back.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and John could not let him apologise for thinking the worst of him.

"It's okay. You're just trying to protect your brother."

"No, it's just that I can't really see the two of you together."

"What?"

"It's just, it's not obvious, you and Mycroft. I would have thought…"

"Not obvious!" John felt his temper rise. "Because I'm some poor, useless soldier sent home in pieces? Because I have had trouble getting steady work because of my PTSD?! Is that what you mean? Thanks for that, Sherlock."

"No, you aren't meant for him!"

"It looks like I'm not meant for anyone then." And without another word, John stormed out of the room.


	6. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**A/N: Special thanks once more to mattsloved1 for checking it over & suggesting footsies under the table:D. Another week with 2 chapters. I may not be able to get to another chapter for a bit or I may as I can feel Mattie's disapproving glower:)**

6\. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

 _performed by Ella Fitzgerald_

 _At that moment in time, I have never been so angry, hurt and frustrated, all at the same time. I've been angrier. I've been more hurt. I've been frustrated. But this was a perfect storm of emotion. The roar in my head made me miss the sounds coming from the room behind me._

"John! John wait! Ahhhhhh!" Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, pulling on the roots. He hadn't meant it. It was just seeing Lestrade looming over John, looking like he'd done it before, as if he were comfortable with it. He thought back to the moment, pulled it out of his memory. John's face. He concentrated on John's face. There had been no reciprocation in his expression. Curiosity, concern, a smidgen of panic, shock about something Lestrade had said. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But not a quickening of breath, not a dilation of pupils. He wasn't interested in Lestrade. There was always something he missed. He would try again. He had to make John see, make him understand.

The clamour in his head died down a bit, and he became aware of noises coming from the bed behind, that distracted him. He walked over to the bed where Mycroft was making little moaning noises. Part of him wanted to record the noises on his phone so he could play it back at inconvenient intervals or maybe swipe Mycroft's phone some day and make it his ringtone. But he didn't. Instead, he pushed the button to summon the nurse.

"Well, well big brother. Waking up are we?"

The nurse came in, checked Mycroft over and paged the doctor. Sherlock in the meantime stepped out into the hall and phoned his parents. It would be awhile before Mycroft was fully conscious and awake.

John walked out of the hospital and down the street; so angry he couldn't think straight. He ended up in a part of London he didn't immediately recognize. He had been walking for a long time. He stopped to get his bearings and took a deep breath.

He bent over, tried to catch his breath, hands on his thighs, mildly cold and hugely irritated.

But why? Why was he so mad at Sherlock?

Why indeed.

He really had no right.

He wasn't dating Mycroft. The man hadn't even met him.

He wasn't engaged to Mycroft.

He wasn't interested in Lestrade except as a friend and confidant.

It was simply a matter of having hurt feelings. He was mad at Sherlock for thinking he wasn't good enough for a man he hadn't even met. A small bubble of laughter escaped and loosened his chest slightly. It was cynical laughter to be sure, but it did ground him.

He needed to get over it.

Once he came to that conclusion, he decided to go and explain. He started to walk back, but as he reached the first intersection, a long black car pulled up beside him. The rear passenger window rolled down to reveal Anthea's face.

"Get in the car, John."

"Why should I? It's stupid. I can't go on doing this."

"You may not have too much longer."

"And why is that?"

"Mycroft is awake."

A wave mixed with relief and dread rushed through him. At last, this would be over. He nodded, clenched his fist and got into the car.

The ride to the hospital was silent. On arriving, he asked, "Now what?"

"Now we go in, and we see what we shall see. Perhaps it won't be as bad as you think. I will be there with you to help you through this. I am sure when this is all over, and everything made clear, the Holmes's will see the positives of this situation."

"You're kidding."

She just smiled, lovely and serene.

They entered and made their way to Mycroft's room to find the family waiting outside. Veronica and William looked tense, and Veronica for certain seemed as if she would kick down the door if someone didn't tell her what was happening soon. Wiggins sat perched in a chair or rather on it. He was eating a pastry and licking his fingers. Nothing seemed to faze him. Mrs. Hudson was also sitting, but properly and she was knitting and chatting amicably to Wiggins and Sherlock…Sherlock stood, hands clasped behind his back and looking the other way from John. At least, there was something to be grateful for. He wasn't quite ready to talk to Sherlock just yet.

The door to Mycroft's room opened and the doctor stepped out.

"He is very disoriented and isn't coherent. It will be a few days before he will regain complete consciousness. You may go in and see him. I know there is no point in asking some of you to wait outside so I will ask that you make it brief, just to reassure yourselves he is well."

They went in as one unit and gathered around the bed staring down at the pale form of Mycroft Holmes. It was not unlike a visit to the zoo. There was the same thrum of expectancy as if they were waiting for a new exhibit, _genus Britannica imperium umbrellicus_.

Another soft little moan and Mycroft's eyes blinked open. He looked blearily at his family gathered there, an almost bemused expression, the specimen seeing the visitors for the first time. He barely acknowledged his mother and father; his eyes swept past John who was trying to remain calm and silent, beside a beaming Mrs. Hudson. The eyes went past him and onto Sherlock, paused and returned to John. A very puzzled expression crossed Mycroft's face.

"Who'reyou?" he slurred, and his eyes rolled up, and he slumped back into unconsciousness.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Veronica.

John swore he could hear the sound of his stomach hitting the floor. This was it. This was where he faced the mother bear and hoped he came out alive.

"He's got amnesia!"

The doctor shooed them all out into the hall while the nurse remained to keep a watchful eye on Mycroft.

She cleared her throat. "It is not uncommon after a head injury, for a patient to suffer some form of amnesia. It is possible he is suffering from lacunar amnesia. It is a condition in which memory loss is localized and patchy and limited to isolated events. We won't know more until he is fully conscious. I will order a CAT scan, plus other tests. I would suggest you all leave, and we will notify you when he is more awake. When you do come back, please limit the number of visitors to one or two people so as to not over excite the patient. It will be stressful enough for him without the added chaos."

The group stood huddling. Only John and Sherlock did not take part in the discussion. Neither was actively looking at the other. However, there may have been some 'out the corner of the eye' action.

John heard Veronica say, "Since they won't let us in to see Mikey right now, perhaps we should go back to the house and have dinner."

"No Mother, I think not."

"You most certainly will, Sherlock. Now let's go. There's turkey to finish up."

"I should probably…"

"John Hamish Watson, do not even think of departing. You will be joining us for dinner."

"How on Earth did she know my middle name?"

"She's a mother. Of course, she knows it." Sherlock smiled at John, a small smile. "I, um, I am…"

"No, it's okay."

"Yes. Fine then. We should probably…"

"Boys! You shall not get pudding if you do not come at once!"

The eye roll directed at Veronica Holmes could have hurt her if John hadn't intercepted it first. He chuckled, his admiration for her increasing by leaps and bounds, wondering if he could borrow some of that attitude to use on Sherlock. He frowned. There was no point in trying to think of things that would work on Sherlock. He would not be seeing him in a day or so. Once the truth came out no one would want to see him again.

Anthea managed to snag John's arm as he passed her.

"Don't worry. Don't tell them yet. I will handle this."

"And how will you handle this?"

"Trust me."

"Come along, John."

"Fine, but this ends soon. I don't want this family hurt anymore."

Following behind Sherlock and the rest, he missed the little smile that bloomed on Anthea's face. She returned to the room where she continued her surveillance of her boss.

It was astonishing how fast family dinner had become John's newest favourite activity. Sitting at the big table in the open kitchen would be a fond memory he would take with him, one to keep him warm on those lonely nights when he was kicked to the curb, a Match Girl moment, as he waited in the cold, nose pressed against the window, looking in at the warm glow of a family dinner.

The amount of food piled on the table was certainly more than what should have been there just from leftovers. John swore that was a whole turkey cut up on the platter and the mashed potatoes certainly were fresh and creamy.

John had just put in a rather large forkful of those delicious potatoes when Veronica addressed him,

"John, have you and Mycroft decided where you are going to go for your honeymoon?"

He choked a little. Sherlock reached across the table and poured him a glass of water while the conversation continued to flow around him without interruption.

"Do you remember our honeymoon, dear one? We went to that little resort on the Tuscan coast. Lovely there very relaxed." William leaned over and said to John. "Nude beaches. Very healthy attitude toward one's body."

"Speaking of nude beaches, does anyone want to see some clips I found of Mrs. Hudson from when she was an exotic dancer?"

"Hush now, Wiggins. That was our little secret!"

"Sorry Hudders! I need to stop drinking this punch of yours."

That mouthful seemed to be stuck and was having a hard time going down. It appeared to be contagious as Sherlock also started coughing. John could swear tears were coming to his eyes. He caught a quick, magnetic glimpse and grinned. Sherlock's eyes twinkled back. He took another sip of water and almost choked again as something brushed his foot. It felt like another foot.

"Didn't Mikey look good today? I do hope this amnesia thing is temporary. I'm sure once he sees John again tomorrow it will all come back. Goodness John, are you all right? You must take smaller bites. Here Sherlock, have some more. You don't eat nearly enough."

Another touch. John looked across at Sherlock. There was no mistaking it from the look on Sherlock's face. It was definitely his foot. He felt his skin turn bright red. The foot wasn't just staying on his foot. It began to move up slightly, brushing past his ankle. Then back down to the sole and across to his other one.

"Excuse me a moment. I just need to use the loo."

"Of course. Sherlock, go after him and make sure he doesn't choke in there. They say that that's what happens when people go off to the loo when they're choking…" The rest of the conversation became muffled as John made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

"John." Sherlock came up behind him. "John stop. We need to talk." He put a hand on his shoulder. John could feel the heat from his hand through his jumper. He wondered in a brief, manic way if there would be a handprint on his skin.

"What are you doing Sherlock?"

"Mycroft didn't remember you. I think we both know what that means."

"I don't…"

"John, Mycroft didn't remember you. You couldn't possibly be as important to him as you think. No, listen. I am not good at this. I did a terrible job of trying to talk to you earlier today. I made you angry. I wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be with Mycroft. Not because you aren't good enough for him. It's because he isn't good enough for you. He didn't remember you. I would never forget you, John. No matter what happened to me."

He stood there, desperation pouring from him. It was palpable, hanging between them. If only he had met Sherlock first, under different circumstances. Once Sherlock knew the truth about him, he'd never want to see him again. He had to end this and make it less painful for both of them.

"Sherlock…I can't. I can't because I'm not what you think I am."

Hurt and confusion swept over his face, "Is that your final word?"

"Yes."

Sherlock drew himself up straight and headed toward the front door. He stopped at the hall tree and took down his coat. His movements were sharp and ridged. John wanted to reach out and stop him, but he didn't know how. He knew he was letting something extraordinary slip through his fingers. They were interrupted before he could figure out how to bridge the distance between them. Veronica and her supernatural hearing must have heard the rustle at the door.

"Sherlock. You aren't leaving?"

"Yes, Mother. There's a case I must attend to."

"Sherlock, don't leave. I'll go."

Veronica looked at them with some confusion. "Did you two have a fight? You really mustn't you know. We must stand strong together, for Mycroft." She looked at John and said in what she thought must be a whisper but decidedly wasn't "Sherlock and Mike do not get along. I had so hoped that with Mike's accident and you're coming into the family that perhaps that would all be put aside."

"No, it's not that. Would you excuse us for a moment? Please?"

"All right, dear. But don't leave yet, either of you. There's spotted dick for pudding."

"Sherlock don't go. I'm sorry. Under different circumstances, perhaps, but well, it won't work."

Sherlock said nothing, just continued to button his coat.

John stepped closer. He didn't want to be overheard, and he thought he heard someone coming towards them from the kitchen. It was Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh look! You're under the mistletoe. You know what that means?"

The rest of the family gathered behind them, curious as to what was going on at the door.

"Go on you two!"

"Kiss!"

"You have to kiss; it's Christmas."

"All right then," John said mainly to shut them up. He reached up on his toes and gave Sherlock a soft peck on the cheek.

"No not like that, you idiot! A proper kiss."

Sherlock eyes closed for a moment while he schooled his features. "Oh, very well get on with it."

He endured the moment, with his hands at his side. John went back up on his toes, braced his hand on Sherlock's chest and let his lips brush against Sherlock's. He thought it would be awkward and fumbling. After all the whole family was watching, and this was supposed to be a brotherly kiss.

But it wasn't. It didn't last long. It didn't need to. It was hurried, but there was a blush of heat and a definite spark. John went back down on the soles of his feet and pulled his hand away slowly. Sherlock stood there looking at him, the anguish visible in his eyes, but not on his face.

"Good night, John," he murmured.

"Good night Sherlock."

The door closed quietly between them.

"There!" said Mrs. Hudson. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

Anthea sat in her room, watching on the monitors as Mycroft drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes a few unintelligible words came out, sometimes he just twitched. It was going to be a long night.

The phone in the room rang. She picked it up.

"Yes? Oh really? That is good news. It seems like everything is going just the way we wanted. Yes, I'll let you know. Good night."

She hung up and sat back, with a tired sigh. A few more days of this and it should all be over.


	7. I'm Your Santa

**A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter – we are getting close to the end:D I plan on getting the next chapter up by the weekend if all goes well.**

 **Thanks to mattsloved1 for reading this over:D**

7\. I'm Your Santa

 _performed by Li'll Ed and The Blue Imperials_

 _I had a lot of difficulty falling asleep that night. I tossed and turned, but it was no use. Over and over again I replayed the kiss, Sherlock's look of sadness. It blended into waking daydreams of the kisses turning into something more, and I found myself, er, enjoying it a little too much, if you take my meaning. Afterwards, I was able to fall into a light doze, but woke early, not at all refreshed. I was anxious about meeting Mycroft properly. Anthea picked me up and drove me to the hospital. I was not looking forward to this at all. I arrived sometime after he had fallen asleep and missed a truly stimulating conversation between Mycroft and his mother._

"I have absolutely no memory of this man. Are you sure he isn't a spy?" Mycroft grimaced as the stitches tugged a little. Although his words were a little slurred and he was incredibly tired, his inborn sarcasm worked at optimum efficiency.

"Oh Mikey, you're always so dramatic. No darling, the doctor believes you have some memory loss. You are engaged to John Watson; he's a doctor and a former soldier, Captain in the army. Won't that put a bee in Mathilda's bonnet, always going on about her Geoffrey and how he caught himself a lawyer. As if you couldn't…"

"Mummy, I don't want to marry someone I don't know, don't remember and isn't even here so that you can get one up on Aunty Mathilda."

"But John is just so lovely. I am sure when he gets here, and you speak to him you will see." She patted her son's arm and then leaned over to poke her snoring husband in the chair beside hers. "Isn't that right, William?"

"Ahem, what's that?" he responded.

"About John, he's lovely and will be a good match for Mikey."

"Who?"

"John, dear, and Mikey."

"Of course, whatever you say." And he fell back to sleep.

"Honestly, how can he just drop off like that?"

"It must be the scintillating conversation." Mycroft fiddled with the morphine drip in an attempt to increase his dose, but Veronica grabbed his hand and patted it.

"You should know that John saved you life."

"Did he, hmmm? Has Anthea run a thorough check on him? Perhaps he was involved in the shooting."

"Don't be absurd. Of course, she has. John and Sherlock captured the shooter, some former aide posing as a cabbie or something."

"That settles it. If he was working with Sherlock, he must be involved in the shooting."

"Now then Mikey, don't be so cynical. Your brother has been worried about you."

A vague sort harrumph came from Mycroft, as he rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Mummy, I think I need to have a rest. If you don't mind." The wince in his smile could have been from his injuries or from dealing with his mother. It was a tossup. He closed his eyes and sighed. He cracked one open again when he realised his parents were not leaving. "No need to stay. I can rest without you hovering. I have no plans at the moment of shuffling off this mortal coil."

"I always said you should have gone on stage. Go to sleep. We will be right here, watching over you." She patted his hand again.

'That's what I was afraid of." He closed his eyes again and fell asleep. A few hours later he woke to find his parents gone and in their place, a small, rather attractive man in an oatmeal sweater, sat in the chair beside the bed. Anthea was also there, as ever, typing away on her Blackberry.

"Oh hello," said the small, rather attractive man with a slight nervous quality to his voice. "You're awake, I see. Good, that's good. Are you thirsty? Can I get you some water? Your parents went to grab something to eat, so I said I'd sit here with you, waiting."

Mycroft wondered if it was the drugs, for he found himself doing something he didn't normally do. He smiled and not his patented 'I am humouring you long enough to decide if you need eliminating or perhaps just relocating to Northern Canada' smile. It was an honest to goodness, real smile and it shocked him into fully waking up.

He cleared his throat. "Please". The small, rather attractive man poured a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table and added a straw. He held it out to Mycroft but didn't let go of it completely to steady it for him. Mycroft touched the small, rather attractive hand holding the glass and there may have been a spark, or it could have just been static electricity. The air was very dry.

He smiled again, this time in thanks and said, "You must be John."

"Must I?"" A slightly more natural response and a bit of a cheeky grin. "Yes, I suppose I must. Sorry for all of this. It must be terribly confusing for you. I really don't know how to begin to tell you how sorry I am."

"Sorry for what?"

"For," and he paused, "for all the fuss and for …" and he waved his hand vaguely between the two of them.

"He means he is sorry you have been shot, sir, and he's been desperately worried. Isn't that right…other sir?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Even on drugs (and they were most excellent drugs) he knew something was off here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

John smiled, a tight, slightly distressed smile and nodded. He also clenched his left hand and rubbed his leg. "Right. I have been worried and am very glad you're awake again." His smile morphed into something a little more friendly, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "Your family has been worried sick, and they have been taking it out on me." His laugh was pleasant, and Mycroft felt his eyes widen a little, and he was sure the heart monitor speed a bit faster. But it could also be that the morphine was wearing off.

"All right there?" John asked.

"Quite. I am terribly sorry, but I do not remember you. I would think that a significant event like meeting you and asking for your hand in marriage would have stuck in my head. Please forgive me, I mean no insult but f you don't mind my saying, you don't seem to be the type of person I would marry."

"Well…"

"Sir, the doctor feels your memory loss has something to do with the shooting, the fact that Dr. Watson saved your life and shock. It was shock, isn't that correct, Dr. Watson?"

A small sighed escaped from John, and he looked terribly resigned. "Yes, I suppose it is. Can I…can I get you anything? Are you hungry? The food here is bog standard hospital fair I am afraid. Or something to read?"

"No thank you. Everything is satisfactory for the moment. Do you mind, telling me how we met? If we talk about it, perhaps I will remember."

"Er."

Anthea walked over to Mycroft's bed, fiddled with the drip, plumped his pillows and pulled up the blankets. "There you are, sir. All ready for a story?" She smiled at him, and he smiled back. There was far too much smiling going on. It was not like him at all.

"There isn't much to tell, really." John looked at his hands. "I, uh, I first saw you coming out of that Criterion you go to. And I couldn't help thinking you always looked so happy. It made me happy, too."

"Ah, yes, they do have the best pastries there."

"So, well, one thing led to another, and you and I sort of…"

"You fell, sir, the moment you saw him," piped up Anthea.

"Er, yes, I guess you could say that. Look are you sure I can't get you anything?"

"I would like my own clothes."

"That umbrella of yours, that's, er, that's pretty nice."

There was a knock on the doorframe and John breathed out.

"May I come in?" Lestrade stood there. Mycroft's monitor might have squawked.

"Of course, Gregory. It is nice of you to stop by." This smiling simply had to stop and in front of Anthea. He would have to have a word with her about not telling the rest of the staff.

"I think I will leave you two alone for a bit. Stretch my legs."

"John."

"Greg. Back in a mo'."

"You're looking not too shabby. All things concerned."

"Yes, thank you."

"So, uh, John. He's a great guy."

"I really wouldn't know. I remember nothing about him."

"Well, he is really great."

"So you said."

"Look, Mycroft, he's super nice, and he's funny, and he's a doctor and a soldier. The whole family just loves him. I think he's, uh, perfect for you." Greg cleared his throat. "You know, and since, well, things didn't work out between us, there's no other chap I'd rather see you with. You know forget about before. Start fresh, get to know him all over again. I'm telling you, once you spend an afternoon chatting with him, you will fall in love with him, all over again, just like, just like I…we fell in love…with him, I mean."

Taken back by Gregory's speech, Mycroft just stared at him for a moment.

"You really think I should?" He asked, his voice quiet.

"Oh yeah, sure I do. I think…I think it's great. Look, I have to go. Work, murders and, uh, things. I'll see you later, okay? I'm glad you're feeling better. Take care." Gregory hurried out of the room.

"Bye Gregory."

Mycroft may have had an eyelash in his eye. He rubbed at it a bit, cleared his throat and turned to Anthea, who wore a benevolent look on her face. "Yes, well, bring me the file on Dr. Watson when you have a chance, my dear and is there any way you can smuggle in a pastry?"

"I will bring you the file shortly, sir, but I am afraid the doctor has left strict instructions regarding your diet."

"Bugger the doctor," he muttered.

"Sir?"

"Nothing, fine, when you have a chance, thank you."

When John had left the room, he spent the next few minutes walking up and down the corridor. He didn't notice Greg leave, but he did jump rather high when Anthea tapped on his arm some time later. He'd been deep in thought.

"Oh, for the love of…do not sneak up on someone like that."

"I think that went rather well, don't you?"

"Rather well? Rather well! No! I do not think so at all. It was a complete farce. I have never had a more painful conversation!"

"Shh, keep your voice down. This is a hospital. Patients resting and all. Look we know it wasn't going to be perfect, but I think if you give it some time, he'll come around."

"No, no way, I am not going to do this. We need to tell them. Have I not been saying that clearly enough? And did you see the look Mycroft and Greg gave each other? Those two are still in love! We cannot, I cannot do this to them."

"I wish you would trust me when I say everything is going to work out fine. I know what I am doing."

"Do you? Really? Because it's not fine where I'm concerned."

"Go in, sit beside Mr. Holmes, tell him about yourself. I'll bring you both something to eat. It will be okay."

"And when are we going to tell him and his family? On our twentieth wedding anniversary?"

"Trust me."

"Fine, fine, but Anthea. I cannot walk down the aisle and marry Mycroft Holmes. He doesn't love me. And I…I don't love him."

She patted his arm and shooed him off. John walked into Mycroft's room and sat beside his bed once more.

The afternoon wasn't perfect, but they did find some common ground. Mycroft, surprisingly, had a thing for spy novels and once he discovered that, they hit it off rather well.

"Oh, but From Russia, With Love, now. If it weren't for James Bond and Ian Fleming…"

"While Fleming did have a certain way with words, his books were rather childish, don't you think, Dr. Watson? I stand by my reasoning that Buchan's The Thirty-Nine Steps is the best. It was one of the first true spy novels."

"Okay but what about le Carré?"

"Too close to home."

"I'm sorry to interrupt what must be a very important discussion, but I came to see how you are. How are you Mycroft?"

"I was fine until moments ago. Darkening my doorstep, once again, Sherlock?"

"It pains me to have to, but Mother insisted."

John felt like Sherlock was avoiding eye contact.

"I am fine, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Whatever for? You're not getting maudlin are you?"

"Don't be stupid. Thank you for capturing the man who shot me."

"Well yes, it was rather fun. I do hope you thanked John here. Couldn't have done it without him. All right then. I should be off. Leave you two to it."

"No, don't go. I should be off. I, uh, have some errands. Goodbye, Mycroft. It was nice. I'll be back later." It was a bit awkward, but there was no way he was going to kiss Mycroft on the cheek. He put his coat on and left.

"You two seem rather chummy."

"Let's not get into that now. What do you think of Doctor Watson? And you can be honest."

"Oh, John. He's splendid. You two should be perfectly happy together, picking out china patterns, going on trips, solving world crises, that sort of thing." Sherlock brushed imaginary dust off of his coat, put his hands behind his back and grimaced.

"Yes, we shall see. I truly do thank you. If it hadn't been for you and for Doctor Watson, who knows…"

"Mycroft," Sherlock looked down, frowning. "As much as it pains me to say, if something had happened to you, your loss would have broken my heart."

"What the hell am I suppose to do with that?"

Sherlock looked up a real grin on his face. "Deal with it. Shall we play cards?"

"Very well."

Later that night John was attempting, unsuccessfully to read From Russia With Love for the hundredth time, when someone knocked. He sat up and crossed the floor and opened the door.

"Sherlock, hi. Uh, what can I do for you? Come in?"

"No, no thank you. I just stopped by for a moment, to drop off a gift for you. An engagement present, I guess, seeing as how I missed it earlier. Or late Christmas gift, if you'd rather."

"You? Bringing me a present. Seems rather unlikely, doesn't it?" John teased him.

"I do hope word doesn't get out. Reputation and all." He was holding a wrapped present in his hand, and he thrust it at John

"Shall I open it?"

"That's generally what one does with a present."

John smiled and tore off the paper. "Oh! Oh, Sherlock, that's great! How on earth…? I don't know what to say." John held the hardcover book in his hand. It was a copy of From Russia, With Love.

"It's signed, too. Not to you, naturally, Fleming being dead and all, but I found it today in a bookshop. I thought you might like it."

"I do. Thank you so much. I am really touched. But this must have cost you a fortune.

"No, no it's okay. Owner owed me a favour. He had it hidden way in the back."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment.

"I'd better get going. Shall I see you tomorrow? Mycroft hinted he might want to talk to you about something, something big."

"Oh? That's…nice, I guess."

"Well, then. Bye."

"Sherlock, Sherlock wait! Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't be engaged to Mycroft?"

"I can't.

"Okay, then."

"Good night, John. Just think this time tomorrow you could be re-engaged to Mycroft, all ready to be happily married. And you'll never be alone again." Sherlock's voice was off. There was a bite to it.

John took a deep breath. If that's the way, he was going to be. "You have no idea, Sherlock, what it's like. I have no one. Good night. See you tomorrow."

The door slammed in Sherlock's face. He stood there for a moment longer and walked away, pulling his coat tighter as he did.


	8. Wherever I Would Be?

**A/N: Here is the last main chapter. It is just plain romantic shmoop and farce:D There will be an epilogue to tie up some loose ends & of course a gratuitous sex scene to earn the Explicit Rating XD (If you aren't interested in gratuitous sex that's fine;)**

 **Thanks again to mattsloved1 for looking this over and johnsarmylady for some clarification on All Things British. Any other mistakes are all mine:D**

8\. Wherever I Would Be?

 _Performed by Dusty Springfield and Daryl Hall_

 _So. Yeah. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing anymore. It felt a bit like I was in a romcom. Cue the music. And it would be one of those sappy songs that plays through the credits while everyone shuffles out thinking 'Did I actually spend money to see that?' Except there appeared to be no happy ending, I wasn't going to get the guy. This was not who I am! I kept saying I was going to stop this, stop this pretense, but every time I tried, I'd look at Veronica and William and the rest, even that strange bloke, Wiggins, and they'd smile at me or hug me and I'd get this feeling in the pit of my stomach like I belonged. And then, well there was Sherlock. He obviously didn't want me, but if I married Mycroft I could just, you know, at least, see him now and then. That's how pathetic I am. Erg! In spite of best intentions and the road to hell I was on, I got up, got dressed and headed out to the hospital. I would either come home an engaged man because I was too fucking weak-willed to say no or I would come home and look for a new place to live, because once Mycroft Holmes found out I was an imposter, well, I hear Australia's nice._

John squared his shoulders, lifted his head and marched into the hospital. Doing this couldn't be any worse than invading Afghanistan, even though he hadn't gone there alone.

He arrived at Mycroft's room to find, naturally, the entire family waiting.

Anthea stood beside the door, a lovely smile on her face. It did not make John feel any better.

"Come in, John. We have been waiting for you."

Veronica pounced and enveloped him in one of those shock blanket hugs of hers. Mrs. Hudson tried to give him a cup of tea. "No thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Kind of you."

Mycroft's bed had been raised, and he was sitting up, looking rather like he was holding court. He seemed a bit better this morning. Not as pale, which meant he was just below ivory on the paint palette whiteness scale.

"Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft."

"I suppose I should call you John."

"That would probably not be a good idea."

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked in such a dry voice John wished he had accepted the offered cup of tea.

"I think…"

There was a commotion at the door, and Sherlock barged in, coat swirling, curls, flapping. He pointed toward John and Mycroft.

"Stop this wedding!"

"Er, Sherlock, it's not a wedding."

"Stop this engagement!"

"Sherlock, behave. It's not your turn. It's Mikey's. Not everything is about you!"

"Mother, this most decidedly is about me. It's about John and me. He cannot marry Mycroft!"

"Hold on a moment; I wasn't going to."

"What?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Ah ha!"

"I'm in love with your son."

"Oh John, we know!" said Veronica, smiling.

"Not that one," pointing at Mycroft. "That one!"

"Sherlock, what did you do?"

"It's not him; it's all on me. I can't do this anymore. Mycroft, Veronica, William, Mrs. Hudson, uh, Wiggins, I guess, but especially Sherlock, I can't pretend anymore. Mycroft, we were never engaged. I never even met you until the day of the shooting. Gr…someone overheard me say I was going to marry you and misunderstood. I was having a bit of a panic attack at the time, I didn't realize what I was saying. I sort of explained it, but An…someone else thought it would make everyone happier and more able to cope if I pretended to be Mycroft's fiancé. I genuinely didn't want to but everything happened so fast, and you were all so nice and…and it's been a really long time since I've had a family. Before I knew it, I had fallen in love with you. I am terribly sorry."

"You fell in love wif me?" asked Wiggins, surprised and blushing.

John laughed, choked and painful. "No, I mean yes, all of you."

Sherlock spoke to John, quietly, pleading, just so he could hear. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know how. Sherlock, I really…it all snowballed. I am truly, truly sorry." He looked at Mycroft. "I may have saved your life that day, but if it hadn't had been for you, all of you…you saved my life that day, too."

More scrambling at the door. "Myc! Don't do it! Don't marry him! I love you!" Lestrade came in, pushed various family members aside, grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders, making him squeak in pain and kissed him. Soundly. On the mouth. There was definitely tongue.

Mrs. Hudson brought around the teapot and refilled everyone's cups while they stood in shocked silence.

Veronica was the first to speak. "I must say, Greg, you have poor timing. Why you didn't ask him years ago is beyond me."

Greg broke off the kiss that was probably melting Mycroft's knees. It certainly was making the heart monitor ping. John was a bit surprised the nurse hadn't come to check.

"But you…you didn't like me. You told Mycroft I wasn't good enough!"

"Mycroft, what on earth have you told this poor boy? William and I couldn't understand why you two had broken it off. Greg, you are so good for him. He's not so, stiff upper lip around you."

William cleared his throat, "Now my dear. I think we should tell the truth here, seeing as everyone's confessing. We said it to get Mycroft to get a move on. We figured he would be so offended we didn't like Greg, he'd up and marry him to spite us. Neither one of our boys ever did do anything we wanted them to. Thought it would light a fire under you, Mikey. You were ever so slow at doing anything. Greg, we are terribly sorry. I hope we can make it up to you. Frankly, I've always thought you were too good for Mikey."

"Thank you, Father, for that ringing endorsement."

"Quite all right. Not sure how you could ever think Greg wasn't good enough. Why just the other day…"

"That will do. Gregory, I am terribly sorry. But why on earth were you pushing Dr. Watson towards me?"

Greg's mouth worked like he was trying not to make a bigger fool of himself and his eyes were soft as he said, "I wanted you to be happy. I thought John was what you needed."

Mycroft cleared his throat, lifted his chin and said, "We've both been fools. Will you marry me?"

"Yes, god yes."

There may have been some more kissing and a few people clearing their throats and looking the other way. Someone decided it might be a good idea for Mycroft to breathe and they tapped Greg on the shoulder. "Oh, sorry." But he did sit on the edge of Mycroft's bed and twined their fingers together.

"Now about John. John? Where did he go?"

While everyone had been listening, John had quietly left the room. No one had seen him go.

Sherlock hurried out to the hallway, but there was no sign of him. He wanted to run after him right away, but Anthea followed him, grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the room.

"We need to talk," she said. She led him back into the room and shut the door.

John packed the last box and stacked it neatly next to the other four by the door. It seemed sad that that was all he had to show. His duffle and his suitcase were also packed, and he'd called his friend Mike to tell him he was ready.

The book Sherlock had given to him had been wrapped and couriered over to his parents' home with a simple note that read,

' _I am truly sorry for hurting you and your family._

 _It was never my intent._

 _I hope they will forgive me some day._

 _I hope you can, too._

 _Yours,_

 _John'_

Mike came over, and they loaded the boxes into his car. Shaking his hand, Mike said he'd drop them off at Harry's.

"You're sure you won't stay in London? Just won't seem the same without you here."

"I'm sure. Fresh start and all. Once I'm settled I'll ring you, let you know how it's going."

Mike nodded, but they both knew that wasn't likely. John wanted to slink away, tail between his legs and not be seen again.

Walking to the nearest tube station, bags in hand, he did not see the nearby CCTV cameras move and follow him down the street. The station was busy, and it took him a bit of maneuvering to get through ticket barriers. Again, moving cameras were furthest from his mind as were the one or two pedestrians who were unobtrusively speaking into concealed two-way radios.

Standing, waiting for the next train, he contemplated the last few weeks. He had not heard from Sherlock, not surprising that. He had not even heard from Mycroft, which did make him wonder. He figured Greg would come around banging on his door in the middle of the night and haul him off to who knows where to be interrogated or whatever. He had noticed, once or twice, an expensive looking black car tailing him as he went to the shops, but they never pulled up beside him to kidnap him.

In the distance was the rumble and screech of the next train. He stood staring down that black hole and waited for its arrival. It felt like it was a summation of his life. Oh well. Soon he'd be at King's Cross, board a train to Scotland, and never look back.

Then why were his eyes prickling? He hoped he wasn't getting a cold.

"Excuse me, but you seem to have forgotten this. It was, after all, a gift."

He was pulled out of his reverie by a familiar voice. Sherlock stood there, holding the book out to him.

"Sherlock? Why are you here?"

"I came looking for the man I am supposed to be with. Have you seen him? Short, kind smile, devastatingly handsome, bit of a ludicrous situation he's found himself in. He seems to think running off to Scotland is a viable option."

"I…I…I…"

"So you keep saying."

John looked around, at the floor at the ceiling anywhere but at Sherlock. With a shock of surprise, he saw Veronica, William, Mrs. Hudson, Wiggins and Anthea all standing back and smiling at him.

"But I…but you…but we…"

"John, I am a ridiculous man. You are also a ridiculous man. Which makes us perfect for one another. Will you please marry me?"

"You're supposed to get down on your knee there, mate."

"Shut up, Wiggins!"

John let his bags fall to the floor. He threw his arms around Sherlock and bent him backward. Sherlock's arms windmilled a bit to gain his balance, and he may have made a soft 'ummmph' sound. It was lost in the exquisite feel of John kissing him, kissing him soundly. A wolf whistle and the sound of clapping may have broken them apart before things got too heated and John ravished him right there on the ground in front of everyone.

John smiled as he looked down at Sherlock, his eyes still prickling.

"I love you, you idiot."

"I love you back."

More claps and wolf whistles, more smooching, more tongue, lots of yummy noises. Eventually, John stood Sherlock on his feet, and the whole lot of them wandered off to get lunch and move John into Sherlock's flat.

The whole time, Anthea followed after them, a serene smile on her face.


	9. The Sex Holiday

**A/N: So here is the last chapter – I tried really hard to write hot, steamy man sex but it really didn't suit the whole tone of this piece. The story was more about the misunderstandings and the confusion as well as the awkward moments and the sweetness of the original story. So here I have given you awkward first sex, with lots of giggling and mess, just like it usually is in real life:D**

 **Thanks once again to mattsloved1 for reading this over for me:)**

9\. The Sex Holiday

 _performed by W. Sherlock S. Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson_

John stood on the balcony of the Presidential Suite at The St. Regis Hotel overlooking the Arno River. Florence at sunset was magnificent. The light played upon the water, the beautiful buildings graced the streets, and he could hear the sounds of traffic and pedestrians.

"Sherlock, you have got to see this view. The architecture, the bridges!"

"I'd rather you came here and saw my view," Sherlock all but purred from the king sized bed. John's head turned, like a whippet scenting a rabbit.

He came in off of the balcony and found him lounging on the bed. His clothes were still on, but he'd kicked off his shoes. Lying on his side, Sherlock swept an arm over the space beside him and then patted the duvet.

"Come here," he commanded.

John toed off his shoes and took a running leap onto the bed.

"Why hello, Mr. Watson-Holmes." Leaning in, he traced Sherlock's nose with his own, smiling at him.

"Hello yourself, Dr. Watson-Holmes." Sherlock moved his free arm so he could lay his hand on John's hip. He rubbed his hand up and down, pausing now and then at the top of John's trousers. When he reached the waistband, he would let his fingers dip under, pulling John's shirt out from where it had been tucked in, brushing against bare skin. John, meanwhile, was stroking Sherlock's ample posterior.

"You are certainly more gorgeous, more lovely than any of the artwork in Florence."

"Even the David?" Sherlock smirked.

Earlier in the day, after they had checked in, they had gone to visit the famous statue at The Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze. Reasonably confident that they wouldn't see much of Florence over the next couple of days, John had made them see it first, just in case they never left the hotel. He had always wanted to see the magnificent piece and had been awestruck by its beauty and the sheer size of it. It had impressed him in other ways as well, and he had hustled Sherlock back to their suite soon after.

The room they were in was impressive as well. It was spacious, opulent and besides the view, there was a huge soaker tub and butler service. It was in walking distance of the aforementioned Accademia, and also the Uffitzi Gallery and the Ponte Vecchio Bridge. John had no idea how much this was costing, but he didn't care. All of those details had been left in Anthea's capable hands.

Moving his hand, he cupped Sherlock's face and leaned into him, kissing him. At first, it was a simple pressing of mouths, but John began moving his lips and letting his tongue flick out to trace the edge of Sherlock's lower lip. That lip had been driving him mad all day as it waited to be tasted and plundered. Sherlock groaned and rocked into John's hips.

Reaching between them, John began to unbutton the tight jeans Sherlock was wearing. Pulling down the zip, he reached in and looked up from his prize, his eyes twinkling and a grin on his face. "You're not wearing any pants."

Sherlock looked incredibly smug. "I thought you'd never notice."

"Hmm, that could cause problems with your circulation. We should remove them quite quickly."

"You're a doctor, and I always listen to my doctor."

"I'll have to remember that next time I need you to clean up hazardous items in the kitchen," he murmured as he moved his hand into Sherlock's jeans and then "Aha! That's what I was looking for."

Sherlock made a particularly delightful sound as he moved to get as close to John's hand as possibly. John obliged him by grasping the object of his desire.

Trying to undo the buttons on John's shirt, Sherlock was not having much luck with only having one free hand, the cramped position he was in and the delightful torture John created stroking him at unexpected moments.

"Off!" he said. "Off, off, off!" He pushed John out of the way and kneeled on the bed. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his own shirt as quickly as he could and threw it onto the floor. He then fell back to wiggle out of his jeans and they went in the other direction. His socks flew through the air and landed on a lamp. John sat there, an amused expression on his face.

"Why are you still dressed? Strip," said Sherlock.

John lifted his hands to finish removing his clothes but apparently he wasn't fast enough for Sherlock and Sherlock batted them away. Faster than he had taken off his own clothes, he soon had John naked.

"At last!" cried Sherlock and he fell on John, kissing him deeply. Sliding his tongue between John's lips, he mumbled endearments that couldn't quite be understood.

"What did you say?" John gasped.

"I said, I love you, I want you. You are making me mad with desire. I want to take you apart and hear you scream."

"Oh. Okay then. Carry on."

Sherlock kissed the side of John's neck, kissed down his chest, paused at his nipples and began to suck on the left one while he tweaked and played with the right. He removed his mouth and blew gently on the wet, glistening nipple. John bucked his hips up into Sherlock's.

"Hmmm, most responsive. Let's see what happens when I switch sides." John's other nipple was given the same lavish attention. "I will definitely need to repeat this experiment in the future, many, many times, to get an accurate idea of what makes you tick. But for now…" The kissing continued until he got to John's belly button. He spent several minutes tonguing his navel and getting an even more interesting response from John.

"Oh God, please!"

"Mmm, what was that?" Kiss, kiss, kiss.

"Please!"

"Please, what?" Kiss, lick, slurp.

"Please fuck me!"

"Very well. If I must." Sherlock left the bed, trotted over to his suitcase and came back with a small tube and several, small, square, foil packages.

Grinning down at John, he tore open one of the packages and then handed it to John. John smiled back and, giving Sherlock's cock a few slow strokes, proceeded to cover it with the condom. Sucking in his breath, Sherlock watched John, his pulse beating rapidly and small whimpering sounds coming from his throat.

Sherlock flipped John over onto his front. John stuck his bottom up in the air, and Sherlock placed a kiss on each cheek before opening the lube and giving it a squeeze. He must have pressed a little too hard, as some went flying through the air and landed on John's back.

"Oh God, that's cold!"

"Sorry. You'll soon warm up!"

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's cock and stroked it. With his lubed fingers, he started to press against his anus a little at a time. John inhaled sharply.

"You know you could warm that up! I believe I mentioned it was cold!"

"Sorry!" He poured some more into his hands and blew on it a bit. "Blast, I am dripping all over the bed!"

"Let's shift over a bit, Out of the wet spot."

Sherlock snorted a bit and tried again. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks."

"At this rate, we're never going to get there. "

John giggled. "It's always awkward when you start out with someone new. I'm surprised we haven't given each other black eyes with all your long limbs and bony knees and elbows."

"Romantic words, John," he grumbled.

John looked over his shoulder a bit and saw Sherlock was scowling.

"Hey, no, look, it's okay. Not everything goes smoothly, particularly sex when you first start out. We will get this and the more we do it, the better we'll get. Like a, like a well-oiled machine."

"A well-oiled machine?" Sherlock's eyebrows went up, and there was a tentative smile back on his face.

"Come here, you." Sitting up and turning around, his legs out on either side of Sherlock, John pulled him into his arms and kissed him. It wasn't long until their kisses picked up the hot and heavy pace of earlier.

John carefully removed the condom off of Sherlock and whispered. "Come on love, let's just get each other off for now. We'll have plenty of time later for fancier stuff."

"You did say we'd need lots of practice?"

"Oh yes. Lots and lots." Each word was punctuated by a kiss. John grasped Sherlock again and stroked him, twisting a bit on the upward stroke. Soon Sherlock was shuddering in his arms. He slumped forward, riding out the aftershocks leaning into John. With each shudder, he made a funny little hiccup sound. John didn't dare laugh.

Once he regained some composure, Sherlock looked at John, gave him a tired kiss and then reciprocated the favour. John was still pretty keyed up, and it didn't take nearly as long as John would have liked before he joined Sherlock in a slumped position. After cleaning themselves up with some tissue and the promise of a shower later, they fell back on the bed. John snagged the duvet and pulled it up over them. Sherlock snuggled in and laid his head on John's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"We have two whole weeks to learn each other and explore all sorts of possibilities."

"Two whole weeks," Sherlock smiled into his chest and then kissed him a bit. "And after that, the rest of our lives."

"I wonder how Mycroft and Greg are fairing."

"John! You do not just mention my brother on our sex holiday."

"He's my brother now, too and yes. It was smart of Anthea to arrange our weddings, so they were together and then send us to Florence and Greg and Mycroft to Paris. Keep everyone out of her hair for a bit. She proved herself while Mycroft recovered, so it's nice she knows the ropes…"

"John."

'Yes?"

"You need to shut up now."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I will have to kiss you until you do."

"Deal!"

Meanwhile in London, Anthea let herself into the office of Mycroft Holmes. Although it was getting late, she had come back to finish up on some paperwork that needed seeing to. Sat at the desk, she picked up a folder lying off to one side. Just as she was about to start reading through, the intercom buzzed. She picked up the phone and spoke to the secretary who manned the desk during the evening hours.

"Yes? Oh good. I've been expecting her. Send her in. Thank you."

'The door opened and in came Martha Hudson. She crossed the floor and sat down across from Anthea.

"Both couples are settled and enjoying a very active honeymoon," Anthea said to Martha. "With any luck they will be so occupied over the next two weeks, appreciating each other's company, they won't even think to check back in to see how things are going in London."

She stood up, crossed over to the bar hidden in a bookcase, pulled down a very expensive decanter of scotch and poured two glasses. Walking back to Martha, she handed one to her and then raised hers.

"To us, Martha."

They touched glasses with a clink.

"To us, Anthea. I must say you have done a marvellous job of arranging this. I only know what I saw, being your eyes and ears at the hospital and such. How did you do it?"

"I knew Mr. Holmes had never got over his love of Detective Inspector Lestrade. So that was just a matter of timing. I had placed surveillance on Dr. Watson when he kept showing up on the same bench, day after day, seemingly spying on Mr. Holmes. Reading his file, I knew at once he wasn't a threat, just lonely. The file also had some interesting tidbits in it about a certain danger kink, and I thought he'd be a good match for Sherlock. They'd each be a balance for the other. The shooting, well that was unfortunate and not planned. I would have arranged something else soon, like, oh I don't know, perhaps I could have had that friend of Dr. Watson's, Mike Stamford, help him find an apartment or something. He actually has met Sherlock and knew him from work at Bart's. Wouldn't have been hard, but as it was, things just came together. I couldn't have done it without you, though. Thank you for making sure Sherlock was in the right place at the right time when he needed to be."

"Oh, that was easy. You just have to tell Sherlock he can't have something, and then he wants it. No trouble. I'm just glad they're all happy. And now you can spend the next two weeks finishing your tidying up of the office and getting it back to order. Much easier to run the government with a woman's touch. Mycroft will never know how much you actually do to keep things operating smoothly, behind the scenes." She raised her glass to Anthea. "And may he never find out."

"To Mycroft."

 **A/N: If you get a chance look up the St. Regis hotel in Florence. It's pretty spectacular. There is no price listed for the Presidential Suite. The next suite down in price is 15,000 euros. So, if you have to ask for the price for the Presidential Suite, you can't afford it :D Florence is an absolutely beautiful city. If you get a chance go. Always have your passport read. Just in case:)**


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